


Complications

by EstravenAi



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Disability, M/M, Other, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-30
Updated: 2015-08-14
Packaged: 2018-03-20 09:36:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 15
Words: 20,684
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3645468
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/EstravenAi/pseuds/EstravenAi
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Heat and noise... </p>
<p>After John is seriously injured during a case, he and Sherlock must deal with the fallout.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Heat and Noise

**Author's Note:**

> Updates Fridays before 5 pm.

_Numb…_

He was numb. But he was conscious, which was a good sign, he thought. But why was he numb?

John Watson attempted to clear the fog in his head while assessing his surroundings. He couldn’t feel anything and, therefore, could assess little about his physical state, other than the fact that he was obviously lying on the ground. So he turned to his mental state instead. 

_Remember_ , he thought. Concentrate. _What happened?_

The fog in his head felt thick and heavy, like a physical weight. He tried to force through it in order to access coherent thought. But the more he tried…

_Damn_. His head was pounding. He knew he should be grateful for the sensation, given that he could feel nothing else, but the pain made him nauseous and unfocused and he suddenly found it much more difficult to fight off the darkness that threatened to invade his consciousness. 

He tried to concentrate through the pounding to assess his immediate danger.

_ABCs!_ his brain supplied helpfully. _Airway, breathing, circulation. Airway and breathing! Can I control my breathing?_

He carefully took several rather shallow breaths and was relieved to find that he still had conscious control over the muscles involved in respiration, though he was a bit disturbed by the only very dull pain radiating throughout his chest at the effort.

He clearly had at least a few broken ribs. The fact was obvious even without opening his eyes. But he could feel only a dull ache when he attempted to breathe deeply. Bit not good. 

He gathered himself and tried to remember what had happened. If he could figure out why he was immobile and mostly numb, he might be able to approach his situation with something more than a scattershot, med student approach.

Concentration, however, was difficult in the fog of his pounding brain… 

_Heat._

He remembered heat and…

_Noise._

Heat and a very loud noise. 

But where was he? Why was he here?…

_A case_! He had been on a case with Sherlock. Nothing unusual there.

_Heat and noise._

_A chase._ He had run after the suspect when Sherlock had, incredibly, pointed him out in a massive crowd of people. Nothing unusual there either.

_Heat and noise._

He had run into a building, far from the crowd, with Sherlock not far behind. His memory became more fuzzy now. He thought he remembered Sherlock suddenly shout something, though he couldn’t make out what he was saying. He remembered turning and seeing Sherlock through the open door, a few yards away, looking…panicked? Did Sherlock ever look panicked? Yes, at Baskerville, but it was such a rare occurrence that it had made John pause, forgetting the suspect. He had tried to listen to Sherlock’s shouts, to make out his words when…

_Heat and noise._

Then nothing. 

_Oh god…_

_A bomb_. 

He had run right into the suspect’s trap. That’s what Sherlock had been trying to tell him. Of course he had seen it! 

_Heat and noise._

John’s blood ran cold as the realization hit him like…well, like an explosion 

_Noise._  

The absolute silence suddenly seemed oppressive, like a physical attack. John realized he hadn’t heard anything since he had regained consciousness.

An explosion just blocks away from a crowded market would surely have attracted a crowd, not to mention the police. 

And Sherlock. John was certain he would be yelling. 

But all John heard was silence. Cold, horrible silence, punctuated by the lack of feeling in his body. 

_Heat and noise._

 


	2. Panic

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Distantly, Sherlock realized he was panicking. Panicking? He didn’t panic. Not him. But the sight before him made his blood run cold.

Sherlock noted the exasperation evident on Lestrade, Donovan, and Anderson’s faces as he patiently explained that the case was disturbingly simple. He also noted, with secret pleasure, the now familiar look of astonishment and admiration on John’s face.

The group stood gathered at the edge of the latest crime scene, a greusome tableu of destruction and gore. The culprit, whom Sherlock distainfully described as "inelegant," prefered to murder his victims by luring them into buildings laced with explosives--antics which not only garnered the attention of the Yard, but of most of London as well. Unsurprisingly, a small but ardently curious crowd had gathered around the borders of the police tape, creating just enough noise to be both annoying and distracting, though not enough to warrent disbursing them. 

Sherlock had only glanced at the scene before launching into his explanation. He finished his monologue by pointing, nonchalantly, to the murderer, who, upon noticing the attention of the entire Yard, immediately bolted. 

Lastrade, looking more exasperated than ever, picked up his headset and began barking orders. Meanwhile, John and Sherlock began pursuing the murderer, who was pushing through the crowd to an alley leading to a set of flats under construction. 

As they crossed the street, a careless driver screeched to a stop inches from hitting Sherlock. John, used to Sherlock’s near misses by now, continued running while Sherlock cursed at the driver and followed, now meters behind.

As he rounded a corner and caught sight of John running into the flats, Sherlock’s body froze and his breath caught. His mind, racing to catch up with his physical state, registered the signs that had caused his body to react.

“John, no! Stop! John!” he screamed as loudly as he could manage.

John turned, but didn’t seem to understand. He was already inside the building, framed in the doorway, the ghostly light from the alley making him look ethereal. 

_Damn his distance; damn that driver._

Sherlock felt his heart beating faster, his breathing becoming more irregular, and his mind becoming clouded. 

Panic.

Distantly, he realized he was panicking. Panicking? He didn’t panic. Not him. But the sight before him made his blood run cold.

He began to shout again, more insistently this time, forcing his suddenly leaden legs to move toward John.  He had moved only a few short steps when a sudden horrific noise and flash of light interrupted his approach. 

Heat and noise.

* * *

 

Chaos.

Sherlock couldn’t interpret his surroundings for several long minutes. His entire world seemed to have dissolved into utter chaos.

When he finally regained his senses, he realized he had been thrown to the ground, had probably sustained a minor concussion, and had been unconscious for at least a few minutes.

Looking around, he could see dust and minuscule debris floating around him, so he couldn’t have been out for long. Something on the edge of his consciousness was demanding attention, but he couldn’t quite catch the thought. Something was wrong, but what?

Panic.

 _Oh god! God no! JOHN!_ Sherlock's world focused to a point as he remembered the events leading up to his current confusion. _A bomb. There was a bomb and John was in the building. Was he… No. No!_  

Sherlock’s panic increased as he stumbled to his feet, ignoring the pounding in his head and sudden nausea, and closed the distance to the now half-destroyed building. Behind him, he could hear the sounds of the crowd reacting to the noise and sirens blaring (too late, as usual). 

He felt numb and dizzy. He was stumbling and having difficulty focusing. Vacantly, he realized he was in shock. Ignoring this, he began carefully making his way through what had become of the building John had run into without him. 

He couldn’t objectively describe what was left as anything more than rubble, though, compared to the other crime scenes, the destruction was minimmal. The culprit had sprung this trap out of necessity. He must not have finished setting up the explosives yet. If he had, John would never have stood a chance. But part of the building still stood around where John had been standing. The explosives had been on the other side of the building. There was hope. It was small and tenuous, but there was hope.

Sherlock began shouting John’s name, while trying to dodge the debris that was still crashing around him and avoid inhaling too much smoke and dust. He was randomly picking through piles of debris without any real plan of action, trying hard not to hyperventilate in the process. John had been just inside the door, but Sherlock could see no sign of him. 

After a few tense minutes (or possibly hours—he couldn't tell), he began to hear an annoying noise he thought he recognized. Squinting up through dust, he saw Lestrade, who had finally arrived and was angrily shouting for him to get the fuck out of the building.

Impatiently, Sherlock straightened and shouted, “John is in here!” before returning to his work. 

He vaguely registered the worried look the overcame Lestrade’s face before he began sorting rubble again. 

A few more (incredibly long) moments later, Sherlock heard Lestrade and five others, whose identities he didn’t care enough to note, picking through the rubble beside him. He didn’t care to admit (to himself or anybody else) how relieved he was to have help in finding John. 

It must have been a while since the explosion. Sherlock knew that his concussion was making it difficult for him to judge time, but if Lestrade were there, he knew it couldn’t have been fewer than several long minutes. That meant John had been in significant danger for far too long. He couldn’t quite figure out what to do to find him. His mind was muddled, worthless! Why couldn’t he THINK?

Finally, after what felt like an eternity, a voice cried out, “Here. He’s here!”  Instantly, Sherlock stumbled toward the voice, his heart skipping beats as he silently begged an entity in whom he didn’t even believe for John to be alive.

When he arrived at the indicated location (a rather disturbingly difficult task) and caught sight of John, his heart stopped and he collapsed to his knees amongst the rubble.


	3. Blood

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> So much blood.

 

 

Blood.

Sherlock’s heart seemed to stop and his knees collapsed beneath him when he saw John through the large hole that had once been the floor of the flats. 

Blood. 

So much blood. 

_John, oh god! John!_

He could hear Lestrade yelling at the man beside him and could sense movement around him, but his mind felt clouded.

_John..._

Sherlock tried to concentrate what he had seen of John before he had collapsed to determine if he... If he was...

He called up the image he had briefly seen of John through a large hole in what had once been the floor of the flats. He was mostly burried under a pile of what looked to be heavy rubble, but what Sherlock could see of him was covered in dust, burns, and...

Blood.

He felt sick to his stomache and the pounding in his head made it hard for him to concentrate on anything at all. John couldn't be dead. He couldn't! Bile began to rise in his throat and Sherlock's heart felt as though it were skipping beats. 

Panic.

Sherlock took several long deep breaths and tried to remain calm. He gripped the fabric of his trousers until his knuckles turned white, concentrating on breathing in and out, in and out.

"...lock. Sherlock!" Lestrade's voice intruded on his consciousness and he suddenly realized the DI's hand had been shaking his shoulder persistently for who-knows-how-long.

"Sherlock, the ambulance is here," he said slowly, as though he wasn't certain Sherlock could understand him. "They'll want to check you out."

"No," Sherlock dismissed him offhand, pushing his hand away and shoving himself unsteadily to his feet. "John. I need to..."

"There's nothing you can do," Lestrade said, putting a steading hand on his shoulder. 

Sherlock didn't like the look on his face. He was having trouble interpreting it. He was having trouble interpreting everything. His mind was still muddled. Clouded.

"Is he...?" He let the question trail off, unable to voice the word as he looked back toward the hole, now swarming with rescue personnel and complicated equipment.

Lestrade glanced over at the hole as well, his expression dark.

"He's alive," he said, though his tone was anything but happy. It dripped with 'but' and it made Sherlock's spine tingle. But Lestrade didn't give Sherlock a chance to ask what it meant. He strode off without another word, barking orders at everybody in his path.

Sherlock was left staring at the hole, waiting for John to emerge, and thinking about 'he's alive' and about what Lestrade's unvoiced 'but' could mean. 


	4. Waiting

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock was waiting. He was dreadful at waiting.

Sherlock sat perched in an ugly, uncomfortable, infuriating plastic chair, his long legs tucked impossibly within its small confines and his elbows resting on his bent knees. He looked ready to pounce--a wire liable to spring at any moment.

He was _waiting_.

He was dreadful at waiting. Waiting was dreadful. Waiting rooms were dreadful. Everything seemed dreadful to him at the moment.

He growled and unfolded himself to pace around the room again, much to the annoyance of everybody who occupied the room.

He needed to do something! He needed to solve a case. Catch a murderer. Dash through the streets of London with John.

But he could do _nothing_! Nothing but _wait_.

The case was solved. The murderer was caught. And John...

As he paced, Sherlock let his mind wander through the last twenty four hours once again, though he seemed to have done little else since he had arrive at the hospital and extricate himself from the nurses who had insisted on inspecting his own minor injuries.

* * *

The ordeal of removing John from the rubble, placing him on a stretcher, and pulling him to the surface had taken an excruciatingly long time. Sherlock had watched from the edge of the hole as the rescue workers painstakingly removed heavy beams from John's body, careful not to dislodge debris or move his body and cause more damage.

As they began to remove the rubble, Sherlock strained to see as much of John as he could--to assess the damage.Now that the initial shock had somewhat subsided, Sherlock could see that some of what he had initially assumed to be blood was actually rust coloured dirt, which seemed to cover every inch of him.

There was blood though. And he couldn't tell where it was coming from with all that damned debris in the way! All he could see through the piles of wood and metal was John's head and right shoulder. But, what was visible from his vantage point didn't look bad, considering.

And then, after what had seemed like an unending eternity, they had lifted the last of the debris from John's body, and suddenly Sherlock understood what Lestrade's unspoken "but" had meant.

* * *

Sherlock's steps faltered at the memory.

He had seen terrible things in his life that would have haunted others, but had never bothered him. Things that would make other people ill had left him unmoved. But the sight that greeted him when the rescue workers removed the rubble from John's lower body had left him feeling cold and weak. The memory of it still did.

He ran his hands through his hair as though trying to physically erase the images from his mind. But the gesture proved futile. The disturbing images of John's broken body seemed to be all he could see--the bright red of fresh blood, the jagged edges of torn skin, the shocking white of bone...

He turned on his heels and stared at the waiting room door, willing someone to enter. He tried to think of something he could do with himself. Something to take his mind off of... of things he would rather not remember.

But he had been trying, unsuccessfully, not to think back to those moments after the explosion for several hours now, so he gave up the effort and allowed his mind to wander back to the next moments in his memory's sequence. 

* * *

 

When the rescue workers had finally secured John and pulled him out of the hole, Sherlock had pushed his way through the medics and placed a hand on his arm. Logically he had known that John couldn't feel it--that he wouldn't know and it wouldn't help. But Sherlock needed the reassurance that John was real. That he was there and physical and solid and alive and _there_.

He was shoved away almost immediately and John was gone. Buried beneath medical equipment just as he had been buried beneath rubble and carted off into an ambulance.

And Sherlock had tried to shout and push his way into the ambulance with him and had been bullied out by several large men and his own very foggy and aching head. And then Lestrade had been there, ushering him into his car, saying something about a concussion and getting him to the hospital. Sherlock had agreed enthusiastically with that, though for entirely different reasons.

The A&E had been all confusion and frustration and anger for Sherlock. He had shouted abuse at nurses and doctors and anybody in his path until they had threatened to expel him from the premises, only relenting when Lestrade interceded on his behalf.

Lestrade had then pulled him away, depositing him in some infuriating waiting room and asking him innane questions he no longer remembered about the culprit, leading to his arrest some two hours later. This occurred before Sherlock's mind had fully cleared and settled on the task of finding the man himself--a stroke of genius on Lestrade's part, because, had Sherlock done so, the man would never have been arrested.

* * *

And then he had begun waiting.

Waiting for news, any news, of John's state.

As expected, John had been in a bad state when he had arrived. Sherlock had been given little information, but what he had gotten was not promising. He was taken into surgery as soon he was stabilized and Sherlock waited.

Sherlock thought there couldn't be anything worse than waiting.

Until a doctor, looking overworked and worn, strode into the room calling for John's Watson's next-of-kin.


	5. Decision

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "I'm afraid you have a difficult decision to make and very little time in which to make it."

"Family of John Watson?" the man standing in the door to the waiting room, whose name tag read Dr. Azarian, stared down at a folder, his brow knitted and his tone just shy of impatient.  

Sherlock was standing in front of him before he had gotten the first syllable out. 

"Yes," he said, matter-of-factly. 

Dr. Azarian, however, looked puzzled and glanced down at his folder again.

"I'm looking for a Harriet Watson," he said, looking back up and staring pointedly at Sherlock.

Sherlock stared back at the clearly worn out man in front of him--bags under the eyes, slumping shoulders, lines on his face from habitual stress. He calculated.

"That's me," he said after a moment, his voice level and flat.

Dr. Azarian frowned at him, his expression turning sour.

"This isn't a joke, sir," he said.

"I'm not joking," Sherlock raised an eyebrow at the man.

He was shorter than Sherlock, which he used to his advantage, leaning slightly forward into the man's personal space in an aggressive gesture that was too subtle to be consciously noticed, but tended to encourage people to follow one's orders.

But smaller was used to being the one in authority. He frowned down at what Sherlock now recognized as John's chart.

"Harriet Watson," he repeated. "We need to speak with her immediately. We need her to make a medical decision on behalf of Dr. John Watson and we haven't much time. Do you know how we can get in touch with her? We've tried calling."

"What decision?" Sherlock asked, trying to read the chart and frowning petulantly when he found it was displaying a page with only irrelevant biographical information.

"I cannot disclose Dr. Watson's medical information to anybody outside of his next-of-kin," the doctor's tone had moved from annoyance to anger now and he snapped John's chart closed and looked Sherlock full in the face.

"Sir," he said in a sigh, "I don't know who you are or your relationship to Dr. Watson, but it is imperative that we get into contact with his next-of-kin within the next thirty minutes or we will be forced to make a life-changing medical decision without any input from him or his family."

"He has no advance directive?" Sherlock asked, unable to believe that a John had neglected such a preparation.

But Dr. Azarian simply turned and walked back out of the door though which he had entered.  

 

* * *

Sherlock didn't bother trying to contact Harry. She would have been of little help in the best of situations and Sherlock certainly wouldn't trust her with any important medical decisions concerning John. 

Instead, he was on the phone with Mycroft before five minutes had passed, after a brief but furious battle with himself over asking his brother for help.

"Sherlock," Mycroft's voice seemed to drip with condescension to Sherlock, "I'm not certain this is a good idea."

"We both know it will happen either way," Sherlock growled in frustration, pacing down a narrow street near the hospital and trying to keep his calm. "This way will be much less messy."

There was a brief pause and then Sherlock heard his brother sigh.

"Fine," Mycroft said, defeat evident in his tone. "I'll get the paperwork in order to have you listed as John's next-of-kin promptly."

Sherlock didn't bother to thank him before hanging up the phone and striding back into the hospital.

* * *

Sherlock had hardly entered the area of the hospital in which John was being treated when he ran, quite literally, into Dr. Azarian, who had John's chart in his hands and was looking very nearly frantic. 

"Have you found her?" the doctor asked without preamble or apology as he extricated himself from Sherlock?

"No," Sherlock said, brushing himself off briskly, "but I think you'll find that I am now listed as John's next-of-kin, if you'll check you're sources again."

Dr. Azarian looked skeptical, but sighed and shrugged. 

"Then follow me sir," he said, gesturing down a hallway with a tired expression. "I'm afraid you have a difficult decision to make and very little time in which to make it."

* * *

Sherlock, Dr. Azarian, and two other doctors sat around a bare table in one of the hospital's small conference rooms. They sat in tense silence for several long minutes, Dr. Azarian refusing to divulge any information until a nurse returned with confirmation that Sherlock was indeed listed as John's next-of-kin. 

The moment the nurse shuffled back out of the room, Dr. Azarian turned to Sherlock, opening John's chart. His face was drawn and he did not look pleased to deliver the information he was about to deliver. He cleared his throat.

"Mr. er... Sherlock is it?" he began, glancing up momentarily across the table at Sherlock, who raised an eyebrow at him to continue, "John Watson has sustained several life threatening injuries in the explosion to which I believe you were witness, am I correct?"

"Yes," Sherlock said.

"I will be happy to go over his chart with you in detail at a later time, but at the moment we have a pressing matter to which we must attend," Dr. Azarian flipped a few pages in John's chart, glancing down. 

"Fine," Sherlock said impatiently, his tone urging the doctor to skip the formalities and simply give him the data.

"John has sustained many serious injuries that have required immediate attention," Dr. Azarian said, tension knotting in his eyebrows as he looked up at Sherlock from across the table, "but one in particular is proving quite... well, difficult."

He paused and Sherlock hated him for it. His mind raced through every terrible possibility in that pause so that, by the time the doctor had continued, he was in such a state of distress he didn't think anything he said could upset him.

He was wrong.

"John has suffered a crush injury to his right leg resulting in widespread damage to the extremity," Dr. Azarian turned in his chair and clicked a small remote to display a digital x-ray of John's leg.

Sherlock had seen John's leg before he had been pulled out of the hole. At least, he had thought he had seen it. But what he saw in the x-ray made his stomach drop all over again.

Although the black and white image hid the blood and gore, it clearly displayed the damage the torn flesh and exposed muscle hid. In the image, John's leg looked like a piece of modern art, with odd angles and burst of white light in unexpected places and far too few straight lines.

"As I'm sure you can see," Dr. Azarian continued, "the damage is quite severe. We need to take action immediately. The longer we wait, the higher the risk for complications. We need to make a decision about how to proceed."

Dr. Azarian turned to face the two men to his right, gesturing with an arm. 

"Doctors Ramar and Pakash are experts in the treatment of crush injuries," he said. "I've brought them in for consultation and to advise in Dr. Watson's treatment. I'll let Dr. Ramar explain."

One of the men--tall and thin with what Sherlock thought was a rather bored expression--straightened in his chair and took John's chart from Dr. Azarian.

"Dr. Pakash and I have examined Dr. Watson personally," his tone matched his bored expression and he didn't bother looking up at Sherlock as he spoke. "Numerous potential complications can result from crush injuries, including renal failure, hypovaolymic shock, and death. In addition, due to the extent of the trauma, it is unlikely that the limb will be capable of bearing full weight and may not even be capable of movement without pain. Both Dr. Pakash and I are in agreement in Dr. Watson's case, given the severity of the trauma and his other injuries, that the best option would be amputation at the knee. We will, however, need your approval before we may proceed with the operation. We would like to begin immediately." 

Sherlock stared at the man in front of him in utter disbelief. He was still staring down at John's chart as though reading a script. After a pregnant pause, he looked up to find Sherlock glaring angrily at him. He raised a lazy eyebrow.

"No," Sherlock growled, trying very hard to restrain himself from launching across the table at the smug doctor. 

"Sir," Dr. Pakash, a balding man who looked to be in his late sixties, spoke in a soft voice that might have been suited to bedtime stories, "I know this is a difficult time and a difficult decision, but it really is the best thing you can do for Dr. Watson. The risks of avoiding amputation vastly outweigh the benefits in this case. Believe me when I say that we avoid this outcome whenever possible, but in this case it is simply the most advisable intervention."

Sherlock glanced at the man for a moment, then turned his attention back to Dr. Ramar.

"I said no," he repeated, his fury building until he felt as though it were radiating visibly from him.

"Fine," Dr. Ramar said, his voice and demeanor calm as he leaned back in his chair, "then you will likely save Dr. Watson's leg, though I cannot guarantee it will be functional. And you will also likely sign his death certificate."

Dr. Ramar stood without another word, handed John's chart to Dr. Azarian, and left the room as though nothing remarkable had just happened. Dr. Pakash followed him silently, shooting Sherlock a disapproving look on his way.

Sherlock turned his attention to Dr. Azarian, who remained seated across the table. 

"You are in charge of John's care, correct?" he asked.

"I am the head of Dr. Watson's treatment team at the moment, yes," Dr. Azarian said, "though I am not the expert in crush injury."

"What do you recommend?" Sherlock asked, dreading the answer.

Sherlock's fists clenched beneath the table as Dr. Azarian paused, looking directly into Sherlock's eyes. He took a deep breath before beginning to speak.

"Dr. Ramar and Dr. Pakash are very good at what they do," he said and Sherlock's heart sank. "I have never seen them make a bad call."

Sherlock let his gaze fall to the floor. His jaw clenched around the words he couldn't bring himself to even consider saying. How could he give permission to have John's leg amputated. And his right leg at that. The very one he's 'fixed' when they'd first met. He couldn't do it.

"And yet," Dr. Azarian's voice surprised Sherlock as he continued, "I asked them to reconsider their recommendations when they examined Dr. Watson's injury before we came to you, Mr. Holmes. Unfortunately, they declined to do so. As they have said, crush injuries like Dr. Watson's come with many potentially serious complications. And we have no guarantee that he would have full use of the leg if we were to save it."

Sherlock pushed back in his chair, running his hands through his hair before letting his head fall into them.

"Mr. Holmes," Dr. Azarian stood and walked around the table toward the door, "I have been a doctor for many years. In those years I have seen thousands of patients whose illnesses and recoveries have followed exactly as the textbooks describe. And then there have been those who should have died, but didn't. And those who shouldn't have, but did."

"Are you talking about miracles? God?" Sherlock said with a scoff from between his hands.

"I don't believe in God," Dr. Azarian said, turning to go. "But you don't have to believe in God to believe in one man."

Sherlock's head flew up, but the doctor had gone and the door was already swinging shut. He stared at it for what seemed like hours.

A nurse entered the room, holding paperwork on a clip board in one hand and a pen in another.

"Mr. Holmes?" her voice had a false cheeriness meant to mask the exhaustion that showed through her slumped posture and drooping eyelids.

Sherlock blinked at her. His eyebrows furrowed and he nodded, once.

"I've got the consent forms here for you to sign," she said, pushing her way into the room and laying the clipboard and pen on the table in front of him.

"Consent forms?" he asked, glancing down at the papers in a daze and then back up at the nurse.

"Yes sir," she said, leaning her hip against the table. "For Dr. Watson's treatment. The surgeons would like to get started right away sir, so if you wouldn't mind..."

Sherlock looked back down at the papers. He let his eyes flow over the words, but couldn't seem to process them. 

"I need time," he said dismissively.

"I'm afraid you haven't any," she said and he thought there might have been actual sympathy in her voice, though he was no judge in the best of times. "Dr. Watson needs surgery one way or the other immediately. The surgeons are quite impatient to get started. His risks for complications are increasing by the moment, I'm afraid. The longer you wait, the higher the risk becomes."

Sherlock looked up at the nurse. He thought about shouting at her. He thought about ignoring her completely. He thought about going to his mind palace and trying to find answers there. He thought about calling Molly or Lestrade or even Mycroft for advice. 

Instead, he picked up the pen. He didn't need his mind palace or advice to know the logical choice to make. He had the advice of doctors who specialized in the care of John's specific injury. He knew what decision he had to make. 

He took a deep breath. 

The nurse smiled at him as he lowered the pen to the paper. 

He let the breath out.


	6. Waking

John was running, pulled down by the familiar weight of his army gear, dirt in his eyes, mouth, and throat, and shouts all around him. The Afghan sun beat down on top of him like a physical force and, no matter how long he had been there, he never seemed to grow accustomed to it.  

Behind him was danger--bullets and explosives and pain and death. In front of him was... Sherlock? No, that couldn't be right. Why would Sherlock be in Afghanistan? 

But he was there, standing alone in the middle of a lane shouting at John. But John couldn't hear him over noise of the gunshots and explosions behind him.

And then Sherlock was coming toward him, his face a mask of panic. And John was panicking too because that was the direction of the danger. And then there was a flash of heat and noise and then...

* * *

"...John," a soft, familiar voice broke through John's panicked fog, though it was distant and muffled. His mind felt weighted and he fought hard against the darkness that threatened to pull him back down. He wanted to find the source of that voice.

"John?" the voice said again, barely a whisper of sound, yet still so familiar.

John fought harder against the fog and succeeded in opening a bleary eye. Sherlock was standing over him. He grinned slightly when John looked at him, so he forced his other eye open as well.

John thought he must have still been half asleep because he saw Sherlock's mouth move, but no words came out. He frowned up at Sherlock, confused. He thought he saw a troubled expression cross Sherlock's face, but then it was gone. Sherlock moved closer.

"Do you remember where you are?" Sherlock asked, and this time John heard the words that accompanied the movement of Sherlock's mouth, though he spoke very softly. 

_Remember? What did he mean by remember?_

John opened his mouth to answer, but found his throat was both very dry and very painful.

"Oh," Sherlock mouthed before bouncing out of sight and back into sight a moment later with a glass of water and a straw and mouthing, "Here."

John drank gratefully, though the water burned going down. Somewhere in the back of his mind a small voice murmured something about ventilators. He ignored it. 

As he handed the plastic cup back to Sherlock, he finally registered his surroundings. Hospital. That would explain the fog in his head as well. Pain killers.

"Wha...?" he asked as Sherlock settled himself next to John's right shoulder.

Sherlock seemed to hesitate a moment, but John was having trouble discerning subtlety in his drug induced state. 

"You were in an explosion," Sherlock murmured.

_Heat and noise. Oh._

"You sustained multiple injuries," he continued softly, "many of which were severe: Concussion; Pneumothorax, which had to be treated surgically; four broken ribs; dislocated shoulder."

He paused, and this time John was certain of the hesitation. Sherlock licked his lips and took a breath before continuing and, had John not been quite so medicated, he would have been much more worried by this.

"You also sustained a severe crush injury to your right leg. There was extensive trauma: multiple complex fractures, ligament damage, likely nerve damage..." Sherlock's sentence trailed off as John looked away.  

Even through the medicated fog of drugs, John knew where Sherlock's sentence ended. His mind screamed with the competing urges to reach down and feel for the leg he knew was no longer there and to never look down again.

Sherlock shifted his stance, looking uncomfortable and guilty and John pulled his focus back to him.

"Your doctor," he said slowly, "Dr. Azarian, couldn't contact Harry, so I... er... I had Mycroft list me as your next-of-kin. They asked me to give consent to.. to allow them to..."

John's eyes widened as he realized what had happened. Sherlock had been forced to sign the consent form to allow the amputation. His best friend had been the one forced to make the decision.

He had never seen Sherlock look particularly guilty, though he had frequently had opportunities in which he should have done. In that moment, however, Sherlock looked wretched.

There were several emotions competing for attention in John's muddled brain. But at that moment, his distress over Sherlock's reaction to the decision he had been forced to make was winning by far.

"Sherlock," John croaked, his throat protesting the effort and making his voice sound distant and odd. "Sherlock it's okay. You didn't have any choice."

"John," Sherlock didn't meet his eyes as he spoke, "I'm so sorry. I couldn't do it."

John frowned, confused. His mind was sluggish and petulant and he didn't understand. Sherlock still refused to meed his gaze. He was staring instead at the place where John's leg would have been, if it hadn't been...

_Wait!_

It couldn't be. John didn't dare to hope as he slowly lifted his head. The movement caused him to become dizzy and disoriented, but he ignored this as he concentrated on following Sherlock's gaze.

And there, cocooned in a complex device of metal and gauze, was his right leg.

John's head fell back on the pillow with a sigh of relief and his eyes fell shut. His leg was still there! 

And then Sherlock's wretched look surfaced in John's mind and the medical voice in the back of his head repeated  _nerve damage_  and  _crush injury_ and he frowned.

"I'm sorry," he heard a low voice mumble from seemingly far away as he drifted off into darkness again.


	7. Whisper

When John rose to consciousness again, the first thing he noticed was that whatever pain medication his doctors had given him, they had given him significantly less of it. 

He  _hurt_!

His head was pounding.  His left shoulder ached pitifully. His chest screamed in protest with every breath. His entire body felt bruised, as though he had taken a tumble in a cement mixer.

He tried to drift back off into blissful numbness, but the pounding in his head refused to allow him any such reprise. He shut his eyes more tightly and tried to focus on breathing, which had become a exceptionally unpleasant task that required rather more attention than it used. Then, all of the sudden, he was aware of a new pressure on his right arm and a soft voice near his right ear.

"...John," Sherlock's voice was low but insistent, as though he were torn between not wanting to disturb John and wanting his attention.

John knitted his brows as he prepared himself for the shock of opening his eyes. He cracked the lids slowly, but the light that entered nonetheless felt as though it were slamming his brain with a physical force.

He groaned.

"John?" Sherlock's voice, still low, was filled with concern.

John, still trying to pry his eyes open, heard distant voices. He tried to listen to what they were saying, but they sounded far away and distorted, as though he were hearing them from under water. He gave up the effort and concentrated instead on opening his eyes.

By the time Sherlock returned, he had managed the task and was blinking up at the industrially bare wall of a hospital room. 

He noticed two things at once. 

First, he was in a private room. He suspected Mycroft's interference there, though he wouldn't put it past Sherlock to have some connection in the hospital administration or to be able to charm his way into a private room. 

Second, he was sitting at a thirty degree incline. He suspected this had something to do with the bloody awful pain in his chest. 

"The nurse is getting you more pain medication," Sherlock was standing at his right shoulder, facing him. He was still speaking in such a low voice that John had to watch his mouth to understand him. "Do you remember where you are John?"

"Yes," John said, wincing as his chest protested at the attempt at speech as well as at the truly dismal sound of his voice.

Sherlock smiled a bit at that though and John returned the grin. 

He looked down at his right leg then. It was still a jumbled mess of metal and gauze peeking from beneath the blanket. When he looked back up, he was certain the look on Sherlock's face was one of guilt.

"Dr. Azarian will be in to speak with you about it in a few hours," Sherlock mumbled, barely audible. "They've already operated twice, but you'll need at least one more operation. They aligned and stabilized the fractured bones with a ring fixator and repaired as much of the soft tissue damage as they could."

There was an awkward silence in the room and John wished Sherlock would stop looking so guilty. It made his skin crawl. The expression looked foreign on Sherlock's face. 

He looked away from his leg and from Sherlock and settled his gaze instead on the bedside table. He didn't want to think about his leg right now. It didn't hurt for the moment, and, although John could not imagine why, he wasn't about to question his good fortune. And, truthfully, he simply didn't have the capacity to deal with it yet. 

In amongst the monitors and equipment were a couple of cards, a fluffy teddy bear, and a few flowers. He smiled.

He felt a hand touch his arm and looked back over to Sherlock.

"You had a few visitors while you were... sleeping," Sherlock all but whispered as John squinted at him. "Molly is responsible for the bear."

John grinned as he glanced back at the teddy. He wondered vaguely why Sherlock was speaking so softly. He thought perhaps he was trying to spare his aching head, which was a kind gesture, though he wished he wouldn't. He could barely hear him at all.

And then, as he gazed at the bedside table, he realized something that made his breath catch. As was standard with any hospitalization, he was hooked up to an impressive array of medical equipment, all of which was turned on, fully functioning, and, he assumed, making  _noise_. 

He stared at the equipment for a long moment, willing it to make noise, but the room remained silent.

He turned and stared, wide-eyed, at Sherlock, who looked quite miserable now. 

"Sherlock," John's own voice sounded odd to him and not, he now realized, though lack of use. "I... I think... I can't...I can't  _hear_ "

Sherlock nodded once.

"I thought as much," he said simply.

John looked back at the monitors. He thought back to the times he had been in hospital. He though about how annoyingly loud it was and about how it was impossible to actually get any rest. He thought about hearing the nurses chattering and messing about in the bed next you. He thought about the beeping monitors and alarms. He thought about the announcements coming over the speakers. 

He never thought he would miss the frustrating, antagonizing noises of being in hospital. But as he lay in the muffled near-silence of his hospital bed, he missed it dearly.

He sat encompassed in his uncomfortable silence, shocked and reeling, for several long moments. Disparate parts of his mind fought for attention, leaving him feeling weak and numb.

The emotional part wanted to rage--scream or fight. The irrational part wanted to bargain. The doctor in him told him that he needed medical attention--needed to asses the level of damage and ensure no further damage.

Finally, he looked up at Sherlock, who was still standing at the side of his bed, but was now staring off into the distance. 

"I..." John faltered as he again heard his voice and realized that the unfamiliar sound would probably now be permanent. He cleared his throat, though he knew it would do no good. "I'll need to see an someone."

Sherlock brought his attention back to John, turning so that he faced him directly.

"I've already informed your doctor," he said clearly so that John could follow the words. 

John frowned. How could he have done? He had only just realized and Sherlock hadn't moved since, so when had he told the doctor?

And then Sherlock's words came back to him.  _I thought as much._

"You knew?" John's eyes widened as he looked up at Sherlock, who didn't quite meet his gaze.

"No," Sherlock said slowly, "but I thought it likely. Hearing damage is common with blast injuries. In addition, you were showing clear signs when you last woke--ignoring sounds outside of your line of sight, having trouble understanding me unless you could see my lips, not noticing other people in the room. I spoke with your doctor after you lost consciousness last night and he set up an appointment with an audiologist for tomorrow morning."

"Oh," was all John could manage.

He looked away. He felt vaguely humiliated and resentful. How had Sherlock noticed his hearing damage before he had? And now he was making appointments for him, as though he were a child in need of a keeper.

He knew that wasn't fair, but he wasn't thinking clearly. His chest hurt with every breath and his head pounded as though his very thoughts ached.

Beside him, Sherlock shifted and John looked up.

"I'll go see what's taking so long with the nurse," he said, not quite meeting John's eyes.

"Yeah, okay," John murmured, not wanting to hear his own voice.

He watched Sherlock quickly move around the bed and leave the room. He felt a twinge of guilt, but he was glad to see him go. He needed a moment to himself. He needed to process without Sherlock, or anybody else, nearby to watch him untangle the knot of confusion and tension and conflict he felt he had become. 

He stared up at the ceiling, cocooned in his muffled silence, unsure where to begin untangling himself and hoping that when he did he wouldn't simply fall apart completely.


	8. Touch

John was fairly certain his head was going to split open. If it would stop the pounding, he wasn't sure he minded much. Of course, then he would have nothing to distract him from the bloody awful pain that stabbed his chest every time he had the nerve to take a breath.

He attempted shifting his position slightly, trying to find some comfort, but succeeded only in increasing his discomfort. When he was particularly distressed, Sherlock had once told him that his body was betraying. Now John's body was doing much the same--refusing to obey his orders and, worse still, distracting him from even the simplest coherent thought. 

He blinked up at the corner of the ceiling, resisting the urge to sigh in frustration and anger, which would have been a truly terrible idea indeed. Sherlock would be back with the nurse any minute and he needed to use this time alone to think things through.

But his body ached and his mind seemed to simultaneously race with thoughts and hollow out whenever he tried to catch one. It was a bit amazing. He never knew he could feel so many things at once that he felt nothing at all.

He closed his eyes, trying to figure out where to begin. Should he think about what his recovery process would likely look like? Or why he was feeling so resentful toward Sherlock? Or how his hearing loss might affect their cases? Or his leg? Or...

John's eyes flew open as he suddenly felt something grip his injured left arm.

Acting on instinct and adrenaline, he threw his injured arm up and pushed himself away from whatever had intruded upon him without his notice. He caught himself inches from falling off the bed, adrenaline and army training keeping him conscious as his vision blurred, his left shoulder ached dully, and his head pounded.

He saw a figure in front of him, backing away as another entered the room and began approaching him slowly. The second figure's hands, clearly visible, were held aloft in a nonthreatening gesture.

He blinked and tried to breathe--to calm down.

He thought he could see what looked like a black coat.

As air finally hit his lungs again, John's vision cleared enough for him to recognize the second figure, who had stopped just short of the bed, his hands still held in front of him.

_Sherlock_.

Sherlock was mouthing something. No, John realized, he was saying something, but he couldn't hear without concentrating. He tried, though the pounding of both his head and his heart made the endeavor difficult.

"John," Sherlock was standing very still at the side of the bed, blocking the door and whoever had been there before. "John, it's me. It's okay. Can I touch you? Can I help you lay back down?"

John glanced back over Sherlock's shoulder, toward the door and whoever had grabbed him, but he could see nobody behind Sherlock. He looked back at Sherlock.

"It was the nurse," he said, still standing still just beyond the bed. "She's gone now. You need to lie down. You're not breathing John."

John couldn't hear the panic in Sherlock's voice, but he was beginning to see it on his face.

He was also beginning to feel quite light headed and he was sure it had something to do with what Sherlock had just said.

_But still..._

He glanced back over Sherlock's shoulder.

Sherlock said it was the nurse. Sherlock said she was gone now. It was nothing to worry about. It was nothing. She had just startled him. He hadn't heard her approach...

But John couldn't calm down. His heart was racing. He felt like he was on the battle field, surrounded by danger and unable to predict its approach.

Sherlock shifted, the movement catching John's attention and drawing his eye back.

"John please," Sherlock said with a look of such naked desperation that John nodded, once, almost against his will.

Sherlock moved slowly, keeping his hands where John could see them.

John watched him warily, feeling his body shaking beneath him and his thoughts becoming more and more distant, until they smelled of dirt and sun and sounded like distant gunfire and explosions and reverberated with heat and noise.

* * *

Sherlock took a deep breath before turning on his heel and pacing back down the pavement in front of the hospital. He had been pacing the same street for the past fifteen minutes, trying to calm his anger and clear his head.

He had come out for a walk at the _encouragement_ of Dr. Azarian, who had prevented him from being barred from the hospital entirely after he had found the nurse who had grabbed John's arm and berated her so thoroughly that she was in hysterical tears in the middle of the hallway. But after fifteen minutes of brisk pacing and "fresh air," he was no less angry than he had been.

In fact, as the events of the past hour replayed in his mind, he seemed to grow more angry with every step.

He had found John's nurse bustling about amongst her other charges and insisted she accompany him back to John's room with pain medication immediately. She had informed him that this wasn't how things worked and he had informed her otherwise. She had made him wait for her in the hallway on threat of not allowing him in the room outside of visiting hours. He had grudgingly acquiesced, simply to move things along.

By the time she made it to John's room, Sherlock was highly annoyed and frustrated. She was pushing a cart, so Sherlock waited behind her as she pushed her way into the room.

And then chaos broke loose. Time seemed to slow. Sherlock, whose vision was blocked by the half-closed door, heard several things at once: the nurse squealing in what sounded like surprise; a loud crash that sounded like the medical cart being knocked aside; the bed creaking and sheets shifting; a strangled groan from John.

Sherlock flew into the room.

John was hunched up in the far corner of his bed, prevented from falling only by the guard rail, which had been slightly raised near the head of the bed. The sheets were a tangled mess, his injured arm was cradled protectively near his body, and his injured leg was splayed out at an odd angle in front of him. His face was deathly pale and he was not breathing.

"Out!" Sherlock bellowed at the nurse, who had apparently backed into the med cart in shock.

He moved into John's line of sight, blocking the doorway and the nurse from view.

"I..." the nurse stammered from behind him, "I only just touched him. I don't know.. I didn't..."

"Out!" Sherlock growled, not turning away from John. He heard the nurse push the cart out of the door a moment later.

He saw John attempt to take a few unsteady breaths, but he was sitting hunched over in a position that restricted his ability to expand his weakened lungs. His breaths were shallow and quick and he was quickly becoming paler.

Sherlock lifted his hands so that John could clearly see them and stood as still as he could manage. He tried very hard not to let his anger at the nurse or his fear show as he began trying to talk John down.

Convincing John to let him help him back into the correct position took far longer than Sherlock would have liked. But he needed to move carefully. John was teetering on a hair's edge. His emotional state and his physical state colliding to create a perfect storm of pain and panic.

By the time Sherlock was able to touch him, John was beginning to lose consciousness. The nurse had returned, but Sherlock snapped at her to stay back. He didn't think John would recognize that another person was helping at this point, but he didn't want to risk it.

He tried to be gentle, but John had collapsed in his arms and moving him without help was difficult. He moved as slowly as he could, but John groaned and winced with every change in position. He concentrated on getting his upper body settled first, so that he could breathing more easily.

Once his upper body was settled, Sherlock turned his attention to his legs. He dreaded moving John's injured leg. He would have to be careful to prevent any further damage, but he was certain that every touch would be intensely painful for John.

He had sighed and reached for John's leg, keeping his attention on John's face so that he would know if he needed to stop. But when he place his hand on the leg, John didn't react at all. Sherlock was surprised. He had grimaced and groaned pitifully when he touched his left arm, which has suffered significantly less trauma. He cautiously moved the leg, still watching John's face for signs of pain, but still John did not react. Sherlock frowned, unsettled.

An then the nurse had caught his attention and he had barked at her to get John oxygen and to call for the doctor to check him for further damage.

As soon as he had been satisfied that John was in no immediate danger and Dr. Azarian was examining him, Sherlock had found the nurse.

Several minutes later, after convincing security not to escort Sherlock off grounds, Dr. Azarian had then insisted he spend the next hour "getting some fresh air" while he took John for scans to determine if he'd done any damage to his leg. Sherlock had protested, but had been told that it was either that or he would be barred for good.

So Sherlock fumed on the pavement outside of the hospital, obsessively going over the details of the event in his mind and becoming more keyed up by the moment.

He was still furious at the nurse. She would never get near John again, of course. But that wasn't what preyed on his mind most.

John's reaction worried him. His therapist had said he had PTSD before they met, though his brother thought she was wrong. He wasn't so sure. John had certainly experienced trauma, even if he hadn't responded to traditional treatment. But his reaction to the nurse seemed to indicate that this may be an issue they would need to address again.

But, though John reaction certainly worried him, it was not what was distressing him most--causing him to replay the incident over and over in his mind.

What preyed most on his mind was John's complete lack of reaction when he moved his leg.

Sherlock stopped pacing as the scene replayed itself in his mind once more. Sherlock waiting for the groan and the expression of pain as he touched his leg, but getting no response. Feeling utter shock when he moved the leg from its contorted position into a more natural position and got absolutely no response from John, not even a wince.

He thought back to the X-rays Dr. Azarian had shown him--the bursts of white and shocking angles and lack of straight lines. He thought back to the mess of blood and broken flesh and bone he had glimpsed when John was pulled from the hole. He thought back to the "specialists" telling him they could not guarantee the leg would be "functional."

He thought back to how the leg looked, lying splayed out in front of John, exposed with the blankets twisted up around him. From the knee down, the leg was covered in gauze and surrounded by metal, but above and below the gauze the skin was angry shades of purple and blue and brown interspersed with cuts and scrapes.

Dr. Azarian had talked to him about John's leg after he had made the decision not the amputate. He had informed him that there may be nerve damage--that John may lose feeling in some parts of his leg or that it may cause him pain. He said it was impossible to predict nerve damage.

But this wasn't localized nerve damage. This wasn't loss of feeling in one part of his leg. John hadn't reacted to him moving the leg at all. There was no way moving his leg wouldn't cause him pain if he could feel any part of it.

Sherlock looked back up at the hospital. He felt sick to his stomach. He needed to tell Dr. Azarian, but the thought made him feel cold.

As illogical as it was, he felt as though telling Dr. Azarian were just as bad as signing the consent to amputate John's leg.


	9. Talk

"I thought I told you to get some air," Dr. Azarian began rubbing his temples the moment he saw Sherlock, who was waiting for him outside John's door. 

"I got some air," Sherlock said shortly, "I need to speak with you."

"Get some more. I'm busy."

The doctor tried to push past, but Sherlock stepped back into his path.

"It's urgent,"' he said, catching the doctor's eye and stepping closer.

Dr. Azarian rolled his eyes.

"It's always urgent with you," he said with a sigh. "Doctor Watson has been sedated and will be asleep for another hour at least. Anything you need to tell me can wait."

"It's about his leg," Sherlock said.

"I've already told you everything I know about his leg," the doctor said. "The scans we just performed do not appear to show any further damage, aside from a possible sprain in the left arm. We are sending them off for further analysis."

Dr. Azarian stepped around Sherlock and began walking away.

Sherlock hesitated. His throat felt tight and his mouth was dry.

"He can't feel it," he managed finally.

The doctor stopped walking. He turned back to look at Sherlock.

"He told you this?" Dr. Azarian moved back to Sherlock again.

"No," Sherlock sighed. "I saw it. When  _your nurse_  cause him to have a panic attack. He didn't react to moving his leg, but he reacted when I only touched his injured arm."

Dr. Azarian paused, his eyes distant in thought.

"You only touched one area of the leg?" he asked finally.

"No," Sherlock answered the question he knew Dr. Azarian was asking. "I had to move his leg. If it were nerve damage in only one area, he still would have reacted to the entire leg moving. He didn't react. Not at all."

The doctor was quiet for a moment, looking solemnly up at Sherlock.

"We can't jump to conclusions," he said finally.

Sherlock looked away, his breath catching in his throat.

"Yes," he said, his voice sounding strained to his own ears, "but you've come to the same conclusion I have, haven't you?"

"There is no point in speculating" Dr. Azarian was rubbing his temples again. "I'll bring in a specialist to perform an assessment. I'll speak to him when he wakes..."

"No."

Dr. Azarian looked up, startled.

"John hasn't realized," Sherlock explained. "I... I should be the one who tells him. Give me a bit of time after he wakes to prepare him."

"Ah, I see," Dr. Azarian gazed at Sherlock for a long moment. "And how do you intend to prepare Dr. Watson?"

Sherlock gazed steadily back at the doctor.

"I have no idea."

* * *

John felt the heavy drag of sedation as he swam again to consciousness. It annoyed him. He despised being sedated. It made him feel dim and sluggish. 

He lay with his eyes closed for several long minutes, breathing as well as he could manage through the pain and trying to remember why he had been sedated.

He remembered feeling panicked... Somebody had grabbed him--surprised him. He hadn't heard anybody enter the room. He had reacted on instinct--had moved away and shielded himself from the potential danger. Then Sherlock was there. And then the details became blurry. 

_Great_ , John thought sardonically,  _my therapist is going to love this. Having panic attacks in of hospital. I suppose she'll want me to start a second blog now._

Slowly and carefully, John cracked his eyelids, thankful that whoever had sedated him had at least had the courtesy to give him more pain medication as well. After his eyes adjusted to the light, he was met with the same industrially plain hospital wall.

Glancing to his right, however, he saw Sherlock, who was sitting in the chair beside his bed, watching him closely. John noticed that his hands were resting on his thighs where John could clearly see them and he was not moving at all. He resisted the urge to sigh.

"Sherlock..." John had to pause to adjust again to the odd sound of his own voice, barely audible to his own ears, and try not to wince at the pain talking caused his chest. "What happened?"

Sherlock seemed to relax a bit, apparently convinced that he wasn't about to induce another panic attack. He moved to the side of the bed and turned so that John could more clearly see his mouth. 

"You had a panic attack," he began. "The nurse..."

"No," John interrupted impatiently. "I know that. I mean, did I do any damage?"

"Ah," Sherlock said and John thought he looked uncomfortable, which wasn't a good sign. "Dr. Azarian sedated you and took you for imaging. You sprained your arm, but he doesn't believe there is any further damage, though he won't know for certain until the scans come back from analysis."

"Oh," John said, "that's good, yeah?"

He was confused. Why did Sherlock look so uncomfortable? He was incredibly lucky not to have injured himself further. But Sherlock refused to meet his eyes and was frowning and shifting his weight.

"What's wrong?" 

Sherlock finally looked him in the eye and John regretted asking--wished he could take back the question. He didn't want to know the answer that would cause Sherlock to make that face.

"John," Sherlock looked like he was forcing himself to maintain eye contact as he spoke, "how does your leg feel?"

"My leg?" John's brows furrowed in confusion. Sherlock said the scans hadn't shown he'd done any further damage. Why was he bringing up his leg? "It's fine. Why?"

"It doesn't hurt?"

"No," John was getting annoyed now, "I said it's fine. What are you getting at?"

Sherlock paused, looking hard at John.

"Has it hurt at all?" he asked slowly.

John's eyes narrowed. He didn't know why Sherlock was harping on his leg. He wished he would get to the point. It didn't hurt. So what? Wasn't that a good thing? Considering how much trauma it had suffered and how much everything else on his bloody body ached, couldn't Sherlock just let him have this one small victory without bloody questioning it?

"No," he said, trying not to let the anger that was growing out of nowhere overwhelm him. 

"John," Sherlock said, then took a deep breath as though preparing himself for something unpleasant, "do you feel my hand on your leg right now?"

John's eye's widened and flew down to his leg. Sherlock's hand was resting, palm down and fingers splayed wide to cover as large an area as possible, on his right thigh. He felt the blood drain from his face. He looked silently back up at Sherlock.

"Sherlock," John's throat felt tight, "I... I can't..."

"I know," Sherlock said.

Feeling panic rising in his chest, John reached down with his good arm and touched his thigh just above where Sherlock's hand was resting. He pressed hard. He could feel the sensation of his hand touching something, but he felt nothing on his leg. It was a disorienting sensation. It was terrifying. 

He moved his hand and tried again. And again. And again. And again.

"That's not nerve damage," he said finally.

"I know," Sherlock said again.

"That's... that's a spinal cord injury."

"I know."

John opened his mouth and shut it again. He didn't know what to say. Vaguely, he realized that Sherlock was talking to him, but he could only manage to focus enough to catch snippets of what he was saying. 

"...calling in a specialist to assess...jump to any conclusions...level of injury...later today..."

John's gaze had drifted away until he was staring again at the blank wall in front of him, willing his mind to be as blank. Instead, it felt like a whirlwind of overwhelming and confusing emotion and thought, all of which were too raw and new to put into any kind of coherent order.

He felt a gentle touch on his arm and jumped, startled out of his thoughts.

"I'm sorry," Sherlock looked startled as well, having backed a few stepped from the bed and raised his hands.

John sighed, though it caused his chest to protest painfully.

"It's fine," he said. "Look, can you give me a minute? I... I need to be alone."

"I don't think..." Sherlock looked skeptical and, for some reason, it made John furious.

"Just go!" John all but shouted.

Surprised, Sherlock backed up a step, nodded once, then turned on his heels and walked briskly out of the room.

The moment the door closed behind him, John's anger rushed out of him and left him feeling deflated and foolish. He didn't know why he had lashed out at Sherlock. He didn't seem to know anything. He felt overwhelmed and frustrated and terrified.

He stared at the door, willing Sherlock to come back, but simultaneously hoping he wouldn't. He didn't want to lash out at him again. He hated himself for doing it.

But Sherlock didn't come back and he lie there overwhelmed by feelings he couldn't control or interpret, trying to to be consumed.


	10. Tact

John was still staring at the door when a short, South Asian man in a lab coat entered, holding a chart and smiling politely.

"Dr. Watson," he moved to the bed before speaking, turning so John could see him, "I'm your doctor. My name is Dr. Azarian. Did Sherlock tell you I was coming?"

"Er," John blinked, trying to pull himself out of his thoughts enough to concentrate on the man in front of him, "yeah."

"Can you understand me well enough?" he asked.

"Yeah," John said, "if I can see your mouth I can."

"Good," Dr. Azarian looked down at the chart, "you're scheduled to meet with an audiologist this afternoon, so we should be able to set you up with something to help with your hearing soon."

"Er," John said, still trying to collect himself, "good."

Dr. Azarian looked up from his chart at John for a silent moment. John stared back at him, trying to interpret his expression, but finding the task rather difficult. After a moment the doctor glanced down again.

"Have you had the chance to look at your chart yet, Dr. Watson?" he asked.

John frowned, surprised. He had assumed the doctor would prefer to go over the chart with him verbally.

"Er, no," John said, reaching out to take the chart the doctor was now handing him.

Dr. Azarian smiled at him.

"Yes," he said before John looked down, "I suppose you have been rather occupied. But you are a doctor, so I see no reason why you shouldn't look at over the information yourself, particularly considering you had so little say in the decisions we had to make to this point."

"Yes," John murmured, opening the folder and looking down, "thank you."

He glanced quickly over the information he already knew: pneumothorax repaired surgically with tube insertion; broken ribs, dislocated shoulder and associated sprain; concussion; multiple minor lacerations and contusions.

Then he turned the page and he was confronted with the x-ray image of his leg.

He stared at the shocking image silently for what felt like an eternity. It must, in fact, have been several long moments, because Dr. Azarian shifted, drawing John's attention back to him.

"It looks quite shocking, yes?" he said with a sympathetic grimace.

"Yes," John glanced back at the image, now seeing the details as his shock began to ebb.

He flipped the page and began reading about his leg. He found that the surgeons had left the incision open between the first and second surgeries in an effort to prevent infection, inserting antibiotic beads and covering the area in plastic. It must have looked horrific. He was rather glad he had be unconscious for the ordeal.

There had been significant muscle and tissue damage to his outer calf, though the doctor noted that he was hopeful the muscles would still be functional if the nerve damage were repaired. He thought back to his anatomy courses. Nerves were strange creatures. Delicate and yet resilient. They could be so easily damaged and could be gone beyond repair. But they could just as easily survive extreme trauma and grow back good as new. Nerve damage was incredibly difficult to predict.

Then he arrived at the note indicating possible spinal cord injury. He swallowed. 

Dr. Azarain shifted again and John looked up. 

"Did Mr. Holmes have the chance to speak with you about that?" he asked, looking at the chart where John's eyes had landed.

"Yes," John said flatly.

"I see," Dr. Azarian looked as though he somehow knew exactly how that conversation had gone, though John couldn't imagine how. "You have been set up with a team of specialists to assess your case. I won't lie, Dr. Watson. This will likely not be pleasant and will certainly take some time. I suggest you get as much rest as possible today. They will begin tomorrow."

"Right," John had expected as much.

"How does your chest feel?"

"It's bloody painful," John said, trying not to wince as he said it.

Dr. Azarian grinned.

"I'm not surprised," he said. "I'm sure you know, however, that you need to breathe deeply to avoid pneumonia, which could be disastrous in your current state. As painful as it is to do so, breathing as deeply as you can will help prevent complications."

John stopped himself rolling his eyes with a monumental effort of will.

"Yeah," he said instead.

Dr. Azarian grinned again, clearly aware of John's effort. Then he glanced around the empty room.

"Where is Mr. Holmes," he asked. "I expected to have to... That is, I expected him to be here as well. The man hasn't left your side without being forced since you got here."

John winced.

"Ah," Dr. Azarian said softly. "Would you like me to send a nurse for him? I'm certain he hasn't gone far."

John looked away. His chest tightened painfully and his head ached suddenly.

Dr. Azarian shifted and John looked back up.

"Ill let him know we're finished here if I see him then," he said, taking John's chart back and smiling kindly at John.

"Thank you," John said softly.

* * *

Sherlock wandered down the corridor, allowing his feet to take him wherever they liked as he resisted the urge to march straight back to John's room.

_It would do no good_ , he told himself for the twelfth time in the last five minutes. 

He had already managed to upset John somehow, though he had no idea what he'd done. What good would barging back in now do? Clearly John did not want him there.

And yet...

He had found that, since the explosion, he became agitated and anxious anytime John was out of his sight for more than a few minutes together, even for doctor exams or scans. It was  _odd_. Out of character. He didn't understanding it. 

Logically, he knew that John was safe--tucked away inside a hospital bed, incapable of wandering off into danger even if he wanted to do so. Still, his heart began racing and his breath caught in his chest whenever he could not visually ensure John's safety. 

He felt utterly felt lost.

Since John had woken and realized the extent of his injuries, he had been distant and agitated. Sherlock didn't know how to face him. He didn't know what to say. What to do to make him feel better or more at ease. He had no skill for these kinds of situations, which seemed to require some kind of delicate tact that he simply did not possess. 

And then there was the nagging uneasy feeling of regret and guilt that he couldn't seem to shake. A feeling to which he was quite unused. 

He rounded a corner and pushed through a door without noticing where he was going. 

He thought about tact. He tried to remember times he had seen John use it with others in similar situations--clients who had experienced some kind of loss, friends who were ill, people under stress at crime scenes. He was typically quiet--reserved and out-of-the-way.

He tried to remember the times John had corrected him on his lack of tact. It typically occurred after he'd made an indiscreet comment or reacted inappropriately.

He decided his best bet would be reserve. He would try his best to imitate John's quiet dignity and solemnity in the face of situations that seemed to require such things. He would avoid deductions and and snide remarks as far as possible, even if it meant simply staying quiet. 

"Oh! Sherlock!" Molly's voice piqued high in surprise, throwing him out of his thoughts.

He looked up and found he had wandered into the morgue out of habit.

"Molly," he murmured, "er... sorry. I... Just habit."

He thought about leaving, but found the familiarity of the morgue strangely comforting and instead sat heavily in a chair and rested his head in his hands.

"Is...," Molly's small voice was hesitant as he heard her set her files down and move closer, "is everything okay? Is John okay?"

"No," Sherlock said shortly.

He heard Molly pull a chair close beside him and settle into it softly.

"What's wrong?" she asked, apprehension apparent in her voice.

"He has some degree of hearing loss and has likely suffered a spinal cord injury," Sherlock said into his hands, "resulting in paralysis of his injured leg."

"Oh!" Molly gasped, her hands covering her mouth. "Sherlock, I'm sorry."

Sherlock glanced up at Molly's clearly horrified face. She had visited John in the long days before he had regained consciousness. He had looked dreadful and she had not hidden her distress at seeing him in such a state. Sherlock was glad he had unintentionally wandered into the morgue. Her naked distress would undoubtedly have annoyed or even infuriated John, but it anchored him. Made him feel less alone in his own distress. Helped him gather his stray thoughts.

Molly was speaking, asking questions so quickly they ran together in a blur and became all but indecipherable. But Sherlock knew what she was asking. He had asked all her questions himself. What was John's prognosis? What was the extent of his hearing loss? Was it temporary or permanent? What about the spinal injury? Where was it? What kind of injury? Would the paralysis be permanent? Complete? What would his recovery process look like? And on and on...

He sighed and looked up at her, his expression halting her questions mid sentence. 

"I don't know Molly," he said quietly. "I don't know anything."


	11. Results

Sherlock paced along the corridor outside John's room, fists clenched with the effort of not bursting into the room and interrupting John's consultation with the audiologist. 

He had already obtained all the relevant data from the audiologist at John's previous consultation--the degree of John's hearing loss (moderate in his right ear and moderately severe in his left); whether the hearing loss was permanent (most likely, though some improvement might occur over time); and what intervention she proposed (hearing aids and learning sign language, which had earned her quite the glower from John). This consultation was merely to fit John for his hearing aids.

He knew he would just be in the way. John had been uncomfortable with the entire process and Sherlock knew he would rather be alone for this. Particularly when Sherlock couldn't seem to stop himself from making snide remarks that angered the audiologist and her assistant. She annoyed him. Particularly when she refused to listen to John and insisted on treating him as though he were some petulant child.

Sherlock pause his pacing and tried to relax his fists, which had become so clenched that his nails were digging into his palms. He glanced over his shoulder at John's door, which was still frustratingly closed. He resumed pacing. 

The days following John's awakening had been filled with tension. Sherlock, fearful of saying or doing something to upset John, had tried his best to remain quiet. This tactic, however, had proven ineffective. John seemed to grow more irritated with him by the day, regardless of his efforts at tact.

The battery of tests he had been forced to undergo had not improved his mood. After each John grew more impatient and more distant. It hadn't taken long for him to insist that Sherlock leave.  _'Find a case and get back to your life.'_  Sherlock, of course, had ignored this, though he had given John more space, hovering on the periphery until his nerves became too frayed.

Today, his nerves were particularly exposed. John's new specialists had told them they would have a firm answer by today about his spinal cord injury. Sherlock wasn't certain he was prepared for the news, though he was certain he couldn't stand waiting any longer.

He head a noise and spun around just in time to see the audiologist leaving John's room, her assistant trailing behind her. He waited just long enough for them to pass before moving to the door and pushing inside.

John was sitting in his bed, his hand to his ear, an irritated expression on his face. But he had looked at the door when Sherlock entered. He had heard the door open.

"How do they feel," Sherlock asked, the volume of his voice normal for the first time since John had awoken.

"Strange," John said, wincing a touch, apparently at the sound of his voice.

_Still adjusting,_ Sherlock thought. 

John continued fidgeting with the small gadgets. They were miniscule--hardly noticeable unless you were looking for them. But Sherlock could already see that John was self-conscious of them. He thought about saying something encouraging, but that wasn't really his area. He stayed quiet and moved over to the bed instead. 

"Did you see Dr. Azarian out there?" John asked, pulling his hand away from his ear and shoving it under the sheets.

"No," Sherlock said.

He settled into what he had come to think of as his chair, though it was hard and uncomfortable and certainly not anything he would have chosen for himself under any other circumstances.

"You don't have to stay here," John mumbled, staring down at this lap. "I'll text you when they come with the results."

"I don't mind," Sherlock tried to sound neutral--tried not to let his anxiety or hurt leak into his voice, which John could now hear and interpret. 

John's frowned deepened and his brows furrowed in the way they always did when he was about to burst with anger. Sherlock braced himself.

"What good does it do?" he shot at Sherlock, "Just sitting there in that chair doing nothing? What use is it? Just go!"

Sherlock breathed. In and out. 

He stood and walked around the bed and left the room. He didn't say a word. There was nothing he could say that would make the situation better. Better to stay silent.

He paused outside the door to John's room, leaned against the wall and breathed again. In and out. Then he started walking.

* * *

John was still staring down at his lap when Sherlock left. He was startled by the sound of the door closing and jumped. The movement hurt every inch of his aching body. He was glad. He deserved the pain. 

He pulled his left hand out from under the sheets. It twitched and he closed it into a fist and moved the fingers, trying to get the tremor to ease.

He sighed, though the act made his chest ache. He hadn't meant what he'd said. At least, he hadn't meant it to come out that way. He just wanted Sherlock to leave--to go do something, not sit stagnant by his bed waiting. There was no reason for Sherlock to be trapped here as well. How long could Sherlock stand the boredom? How long before he resented John for the boredom? 

Plus, he hated Sherlock seeing him like this--useless and weak. Each time he was taken for a test he came back feeling more dehumanized and humiliated, like a lab rat being tortured. He knew his doctors were doing their best for him, but that didn't make it feel any nicer and he didn't want Sherlock to see it.

And he didn't want Sherlock to see that, on top of everything physically wrong with him, John was losing his grip on his mind again as well. 

John clenched his fist tightly as the tremors increased, then sighed again and let it drop to the bed. 

_God_ , he was so angry! It was unfair. He had already been through this once. Wasn't that enough? Hadn't he already lost enough? Why was this happening again?

He let his head fall back against his pillow and his eyes fall close. He tried to breathe deeply, which hurt enough to distract him from his anger and anxiety.

It must have been sometime later, though he couldn't be certain how long, when the sound of the door opening startled him, causing him to jump again.

Grimacing, he opened his eyes to see Sherlock entering the room, accompanied by Dr. Azarian. He took one more deep breath.

Sherlock remained silent and moved to the right side of his bed. His face was a mask of neutrality, but John could read the tension in his body. John wanted to apologize for what he'd said, or how it had come out, but he didn't know what to say.

He was interrupted before he figured it out.

"John," Dr. Azarian moved to the end of the bed, "how are the hearing aids working?"

"They're fine," John said, hoping the doctor wouldn't get caught up on small talk.

"Good," Dr. Azarian smiled and looked down at his chart. "I've just met with your team and I've finally got some news for you, of a sort."

John frowned. "What does that mean?"

"Well," Dr. Azarian gave him a sheepish look, "I'm afraid their results were inconclusive. Some of your team believe you are suffering from Brown-Sequard syndrome, which is an incomplete spinal cord lesion causing contralateral paralysis. This would be permanent and untreatable."

John's head felt as though it were buzzing. He had prepared himself. He knew this was what he was going to hear, down almost to the exact wording. Yet he had not been prepared at all. He realized suddenly that he hadn't been breathing and took a painful breath, willing himself to continue listening, though he wasn't certain he could take any more bad news.

"Other members, however," Dr. Azarian continued, "believe you may be suffering instead from a compression injury."

John blinked. His throat had gone dry. He was staring, wide-eyed at Dr. Azarian.

"But that..." he stammered, "that's treatable, right?"

"Maybe," Dr. Azarian said slowly, "but, Dr. Watson, you should know that there are risks for some very serious complications."

But John had stopped listening. There was a chance. He had a chance to not lose everything. He didn't care about the risks. If it meant not being invalidated home from his life again, he would risk anything and he had a chance.

Beside him, Sherlock had sunk into the chair. John glanced over and saw that he was frowning. He couldn't fathom why though. John felt truly hopeful for the first time since he had awoken.


	12. Risks

"Dr. Watson, you should know that there are risks for some very serious complications" 

Sherlock watched John's expression shift from resigned despair to shocked disbelief and, finally, to hope.

Sherlock sank into his chair, the strength leaving his legs as the doctor's last words registered. He saw John glance over at him and tried to school his expression, but knew he had failed. He could feel the panic rising in his chest. He needed data.

"How can you be certain which is the correct diagnosis?" he asked, looking up at Dr. Azarian.

Dr. Azarian frowned as he turned his attention from John to Sherlock, though he didn't look annoyed, as he typically did when he dealt with Sherlock. No, he looked...worried? Sherlock felt the panic in his chest swell and took a deep breath.

"Unfortunately," he said, a sigh just evident in his voice, "a definitive diagnosis is very difficult, given the nature of Dr. Watson's injury. We will not be able to make a one without surgical intervention, I'm afraid, and, even then, it will include a fair amount of guess work."

"And that intervention would be?" Sherlock asked.

"Working on the assumption that Dr. Watson is suffering from a compression injury, we would relieve the pressure on the injured section of spinal cord and stabilize the discs in the region."

"Prognosis?"

Dr. Azarian hesitated. Beside them, John looked expectantly at him, waiting for his good news. Sherlock was waiting for something else entirely.

"That depends," Dr. Azarian said slowly. "Realistically, the likelihood that Dr. Watson is suffering from a compression injury alone is low. More likely he has some combination of the two--a compression injury as well as a lesion. If that is the case, treating the compression injury could help Dr. Watson regain some level of function in his leg, depending on the severity of the lesion. Unfortunately, we cannot know anything without actually attempting the treatment."

Sherlock glanced at John, who was focused on the doctor, his expression set and determined. 

"I want to do it then," John said, his tone as determined as his expression.

Sherlock opened his mouth to argue, but Dr. Azarian beat him to it.

"Dr. Watson," he said, addressing John without any hint of condescension, "you should know the risks before you make your decision."

"Yes, of course," John said, though Sherlock thought he looked vaguely irritated.

"First," Dr. Azarian began, "there is no guarantee that this treatment will have any positive outcome. It would essentially be a blind gamble. If there is no compression injury, the intervention will be entirely ineffective."

"Yes," John said, nodding curtly as the doctor waited.

"Second, there is a real chance that the intervention could cause further damage to your spinal cord, rather than restoring function. Any surgical intervention on the spinal region comes with high risk for complications and this would be particularly risky, given the nature of the injury."

Sherlock watched as John nodded curtly again, his face still a mask of determination.

"And finally," Dr. Azarian continued, "your lung has not fully recovered, which makes surgery particularly dangerous. You will be at higher risk for respiratory complications during surgery, as well as for pneumonia during recovery. In addition, the risk for a secondary pneumothorax is high. I generally do not recommend surgery so soon after a lung collapse, Dr. Watson."

"Could John wait until his lung has recovered?" Sherlock asked, noting the tension building in John's demeanor.

"I'm afraid we haven't much time," Dr. Azarian replied. "The longer we wait, the higher the chance that any possible compression injury is causing irreparable damage."

"In other words," John interrupted, "if we don't do this now, I don't have any chance at all."

Dr. Azarian looked uncomfortable. "Well, in essence, yes."

"Then I want to do it," John said.

"John, wait," Sherlock blurted out before he could stop himself.

John shot him a look somewhere between confusion and anger.

"What?" he asked, annoyance creating an edge to his voice.

Sherlock was torn. This wasn't his decision to make and John was already teetering on the edge of anger, but he couldn't just let him recklessly rush into this without considering it fully.

How like John, Sherlock thought, recklessly rushing headlong into danger. He thought back to their first case together.  _"And I said dangerous and here you are."_ He hadn't known then how prescient those words had been. How often John Watson would throw himself into the line of fire. 

He turned to face John, who was now glaring at him.

"John," he said, keeping his voice as neutral as he could manage, "I simply thought you might want to take some time to consider.."

"Consider what, Sherlock?" John burst out. "Doing nothing?"

"John, I simply mean that the risks..." 

"Sherlock, I'm not having this.."

Dr. Azarian cleared his throat, interrupting what was quickly escalating into fight and reminding both Sherlock and John that somebody else was in the room with them.

"I'll go draw up the consent forms," he said.

"Er, yeah," John mumbled.

Dr. Azarian gave them both a polite smile and left the room, leaving behind a heavy silence and two men, staring at one another.

* * *

The silence stretched out between them. John stared at Sherlock, trying to reign in his rising frustration and anger. Sherlock stared back, his face unreadable.  

At least Sherlock had finally spoken, John thought. In the past few days, Sherlock had said no more than twenty words to John. He knew this because he had started a mental tally after he noticed Sherlock being distant. 

Well, more distant than usual, John thought. Sherlock had never been the most open of people. But now.... It was as though Sherlock had lost all interest in speaking to him. He couldn't blame him, when it came down to it. It wasn't as though he could do much to interest the mind of the brilliant detective at the moment.

But now he had a chance... a chance to get something back. And now Sherlock decided to talk. And why? To talk him out of it? Why? Why wouldn't he want John to jump at even the smallest of hopes?

"I'm doing it Sherlock," John said, giving up on untangling the confusion of his thoughts.

Across from him, Sherlock blinked slowly and took a moment before replying. 

"John," he said, and John tried not to bristle at the tone--as though Sherlock were speaking to a confused child or someone with a head injury, "you haven't had the chance to weigh the pros and cons yet. There is no need to rush so quickly to a decision."

"I don't need to weight anything, Sherlock," John said, controlling his tone with an effort. "If there is any chance of getting function back, I'm taking it."

"The chance is small compared to the risk," Sherlock's tone was beginning to lose its neutrality, an edge of annoyance creeping in.

"Damn the risks!" John shot back. "I don't give a damn about the risks, Sherlock!"

"Those risks you're so quick to damn are your life, John!" Sherlock spat back, his voice rising with him as he rose from the chair. "Why do you always find that so easy to throw away?" 

John felt his heart drop into his stomach. So Sherlock did blame him then. Blamed him for being reckless. For not waiting for him that night. For running into the flats. For getting himself into this position. Of course he did. Why wouldn't he? John certainly blamed himself. 

But that didn't mean he was going to just sit here and do nothing about it. If he had a chance, he was going to take it. After all, what was his life worth if he lost everything again?

"It's my life and it's my leg," John said softly. "I'm doing it, Sherlock. This isn't your decision."

Sherlock opened his mouth, but John stared at him, resolute. He closed it again, frowning and looking petulant. They stared at one another for a long moment before Sherlock let out a sigh, turned on his heels, and stalked out of the room.

Alone in the room, John stared at his leg, a tangled mess of metal and gauze lying useless before him. He knew it was a long shot--that it would probably come to nothing and might make things so much worse. But, as he thought back to the bedsit and the cane and his life after Afghanistan and before Sherlock Holmes, he knew he really had no choice at all.


	13. Complication

Sherlock sat confined in the same ugly, uncomfortable, plastic chair he had sat in after the explosion, doing the exact same thing he had been doing then--waiting. It wasn't literally the same chair (he was in a different waiting room in a different part of the hospital), but it may as well have been. It certainly felt the same. 

He was folded in on himself--his long, slim body bend at improbable angles in order to create his own space on which others could not intrude. His legs were pulled up tightly to his chest, his arms tucked into his body between them, his head resting on his knees. 

He was trying to find enough solitude and peace to  _think_! The problem was that the disturbance wasn't external in origin.

He kept replaying the past few days, since Dr. Azarian told John about the potential for a treatment for his spinal cord injury. He was trying to find a way he could have persuaded John to refuse the surgery. It was an entirely useless exercise, as John had now been in surgery for the past three hours, but he couldn't seem to stop himself.

Ever since they had fought over the surgery, they had spoken little. John had signed the consent forms as soon as a nurse returned with them a few hours later and then refused point blank to discuss it further with Sherlock.

Sherlock had been given three days time before the surgery, which had been rushed, given the circumstances. He had tried various tactics of persuasion, all of which failed spectacularly. He had even made a rather desperate attempt to get Mycroft to intercede. To his fury, Mycroft had refused offhand and began blathering about how he and John needed to  _talk_ , as though he hadn't already tried that.

In the end, they had sat together in John's room the night before his surgery in a tense, uncomfortable silence. Sherlock hadn't been able to think of anything to say that would persuade John. John had been silent since he'd gotten the news--resolute and determined and stubborn and infuriating and so damn  _John_  about it all. And Sherlock had wanted to say something to him--if not to persuade him, then just to talk to him. But everything seemed to get caught up in him and go wrong. So he stayed silent.

And now he waited. Again. 

"Aarrghhh" he groaned, rubbing his hands roughly through his hair and disentangling himself, suddenly claustrophobic. 

He pushed himself to his feet and began pacing the small, nondescript room, hoping the frantic movement would ease his frantic thoughts. As he walked, he focused on breathing steadily and  _not_  thinking about things that were useless anyway, like changing the past. 

He was in the middle of spinning around to pace back across the room when his progress was halted, rather abruptly, by a petite figure in a lab coat and a pony tail.

"Ah!" the small woman squeaked in surprise as Sherlock very nearly knocked her over.

"Molly!" Sherlock stared blankly at her as he attempted to focus.

"S-sorry," Molly stammered, recovering herself just short of falling. "I just wanted to check on how John was doing."

At her mention of John's name, Sherlock's focus finally centered squarely on Molly, who looked startled at the force of his gaze.

"He's still in surgery," Sherlock growled.

Molly raised her eyebrows.

"Is everything okay?" she asked.

"Of course not!" Sherlock spat, a bit louder than he had intended.

Molly's eyebrow's raised a bit higher, but, to her credit, she didn't flinch. Instead, she gave Sherlock a rather piercing look before glancing over at an empty corner of the room.

"Want to sit down?" she suggested.

Sherlock hesitated. He felt as though he were being propelled by a restless energy that might destroy him if he remained still too long. But, he also felt the urge to talk--to purge all the words he hadn't been able to say over the last few days. 

He nodded brusquely and followed her to yet another uncomfortable, plastic chair. She sat next to him, but didn't speak. She simply waited, watching him as he collected his jumbled thoughts and tried to reign in his frustration.

"I don't understand," he finally blurted out.

"Don't understand what?" she asked quietly.

"Why!" he growled. "Why did he sign those damned consent forms? Why did he agree to the surgery? It makes no sense!"

Molly's brows knitted in obvious confusion.

"He might get function back in his leg, right?" she said slowly.

Sherlock's frustration flamed higher at her question.

"The chances that he will regain function are minuscule," he shot at her, "particularly compared to the risks. He is risking further injury to his spine--further paralysis or worse. He very recently suffered a collapsed lung, which has not had the chance to fully heal. Going into surgery now runs the risk of respiratory complications both during and after surgery. The potential chance to regain some function in a leg is  _not worth it_."

"Oh," Molly's eyes were a bit wide, but now that Sherlock had begun, he couldn't seem to stop himself.

"And yet," he continued, "John would hear no argument. He entirely dismissed any sensible discussion about the risks outweighing the potential benefits. He refused to listen to a word I said about it, in fact. He just signed the damned consent forms and then refused to talk to me about it. Why? Why was he so adamant about this? Why wouldn't he listen?"

Molly waited a moment, clearly checking that Sherlock was finished before she responded. But Sherlock had run himself out and now sat glaring at the ugly tile at his feet.

"How did you try and persuade him?" she asked quietly.

"I tried everything," Sherlock sighed. "Reasoning with him. Getting the doctor to speak with him on my behalf. Presenting him with data. I even tried interceding to halt the surgery and provide more time for persuasion. Nothing worked."

Molly was looking at him in a way he was having difficulty interpreting. Pity? Why?

"Did you try telling him why you didn't want him to go through with it?" she asked.

"Yes, of course," he shot back, "I just said I tried reasoning with him. I told him that the risks outweighed the..."

"No, Sherlock," Molly's voice was quiet and she placed a hand on his knee as she interrupted him. "I mean, did you tell him  _why._ "

Sherlock's brows knitted in confusion. "What do you mean?"

"I mean," she said, pity now entirely evident in her expression, "why it matters that the risks outweigh the benefits. Why you care so much whether or not he goes through with the surgery. Why you've been at his side since he got hurt.  _Why_."

Sherlock frowned at her. What did she mean? Of course it mattered that the risks outweighed the benefits. That was only logical. And he cared because John was making the wrong decision. He... He had stayed because... Well of course he... Why wouldn't...

Molly sighed and squeezed his leg.

"It's okay to love someone, Sherlock," she said softly, sadness just evident in her eyes, "and it's okay to tell them too."

Sherlock stared at her blankly. 

And then it hit him all at once, like a tsunami crashing into shore. His frequent and sundry attempts to impress John, vaguely masked under the guise of 'showing off.'  His irritation any time John was away. The way John made him see things differently--even  _feel_  things, despite his best efforts to avoid sentiment. How John had limped into his life and change it--change  _him_ \--so very utterly and completely.

The utter anguish he had felt when he didn't know if John was alive or dead. The anxiety he experienced any time John had been out of his sight since his injury. His panicked need to prevent John from agreeing to this surgery--to prevent him from any possible further injury or trauma.

The words John had written so long ago echoed in his head then: "Sherlock sees right through everyone and everything in seconds. What's incredible, though, is how spectacularly ignorant he is about some things." 

How could he have been so blind? How could he have missed it? It was so obvious! He detested sentiment.  _Emotions...grit on the lens. Fly in the ointment._  And yet... and yet John was different. John was the complication in his carefully constructed system. But, complication though he was, he somehow made everything better.

"I..." Sherlock stared wide-eyed at Molly, "I didn't know... I didn't realize..."

"Oh Sherlock," she said with a sad smile. "Then maybe he didn't know either. You need to tell him."

"No!" Sherlock replied immediately. "Out of the question."

Molly frowned. "But, why?"

Sherlock thought about John's past love interests--all women. He thought back to every time John had loudly insisted he wasn't gay--usually when somebody had assumed he was romantically entangled with Sherlock. He thought back to John's anger with him over the past few days--to his outbursts and distance. And he knew just as clearly as he now knew his own feelings toward John that John did not reciprocate them.

"Telling him would ruin everything," Sherlock said softly.

"But you can't know that," Molly said.

"I can," Sherlock replied.

"But how?" 

Sherlock was opening his mouth to respond when the door to the waiting room opened and Dr. Azarian entered. Sherlock was on his feet before Molly had time to register that someone had entered the room.

"Sherlock," Dr. Azarian looked exhausted.

"How is he?" Sherlock asked, as he came to a halt in front of the doctor, his heart beating wildly.

Dr. Azarian sighed, meeting Sherlock's eyes with difficulty.

"I'm afraid there's been a complication."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I probably won't be able to post a new chapter next week, I'm afraid. I'll be out of town. Sorry!


	14. Confession

John was running. 

In front of him, the suspect darted down the alleyway between trash bins and the occasional fire escape. John pressed harder, jumping an overturned bin as he began to close the distance between himself and the suspect.

He could hear Sherlock a few meters behind him, but he didn't slow down to wait for him. There was no time for that. There was a suspect to catch and he wasn't far now. 

The suspect rushed out of the alley and around a corner, but John was right on his heels. He rounded the corner only seconds after, spotting the suspect as he darted into a set of abandoned flats. With a burst of extra speed, John pushed after him, determined not to let the murderer get away.

He reached the flats and rushed inside, except...

Something was wrong. Behind him, he could hear Sherlock calling him. He stopped and turned just inside the door, trying to make out what Sherlock was saying. 

And...and the door was familiar. And the flats... the flats weren't rundown or abandoned anymore. And the street... the street was familiar too.

John stared wide-eyed at Sherlock, who was shouting at him from Baker Street. He was standing in the doorway of 221 Baker Street!

His throat constricted with sudden panic.  _No! No, this isn't how it's suppose to happen! No! Not Baker Street! Not here!_

Any moment now an explosion was going to rip through his home and everything he loved was going to be destroyed. He tried to move, but his legs would no longer respond to his commands. And now Sherlock was coming toward him.

_No!_

John reached out, trying to stop him, but Sherlock kept moving forward. There was nothing he could do. He was going to lose everything. 

_NO!_

_Heat and noise._

* * *

John woke with a start, drenched in sweat and struggling to scream--to warn Sherlock not to come nearer. But his lungs refused to cooperate. He couldn't scream--couldn't make any sound at all. Panicking, he pressed himself forward, trying instead to get to Sherlock, but something was in the way. He could feel his control slipping as he struggle to move.

But then a voice penetrated the fog of panic. It was very soft and difficult to hear, but it was a voice a would recognize anywhere.  _Sherlock!_

"John! John! It's me. It's Sherlock. John!" 

John blinked. That didn't make sense. The voice was next to his ear, but Sherlock was... 

He felt a hand at his ear and struggled to get away.

"It's me John. I'm putting your hearing aid in so you can hear me."

Sherlock again. But... But Sherlock was... And they were at Baker street and it was...

"John, you're in the hospital. You've had a nightmare. Look at me."

John blinked and turned in the direction of Sherlock's voice. Sherlock and the hospital seemed to materialize around him like a dream. He was having trouble distinguishing what was reality. And he was shaking. And the bomb... And...

Sherlock put a hand on his shoulder and squeezed gently. He swallowed painfully and tried to take a deep breath, but found that he still couldn't manage breathing.

It  _hurt_. 

His entire chest felt as though it were on fire. He tried to groan, but his throat was dry and painful. He settled for wincing and closing his eyes instead.

When he opened his eyes again a moment later, a straw was hovering in front of his lips. He gave Sherlock a grateful half grin and sipped as much of the offered water as he could manage.

The cup was removed and he closed his eyes again, trying to focus on breathing and not on the dream that was still insistently demanding his attention.

And then he felt something that shocked him so much his focus shifted entirely: a hand had been wrapped around his own. A familiar hand. Sherlock's hand. 

His eyes flew open and he stared in open shock at their now entwined hands, not quite believing what he had felt. Then, when he was certain he wasn't hallucinating, he looked up at Sherlock's face.

Sherlock's eyes were closed and his jaw was clenched.

_Well this can't be good_ , John thought, raising an eyebrow. 

"Sher..." he tried, but found himself coughing painfully before he could finish the word.

After a moment of collecting himself, he glanced up to find Sherlock looking somehow even more stricken. Sherlock's hand had wrapped more tightly around his own. 

_Definitely not good_.

He tried again. 

"Sherlock?" he asked, his voice coming out as little more than a harsh whisper. "What's wrong?"

Sherlock took a deep breath before opening his eyes and meeting John's. John felt his heart sink. Something was very wrong. He had never seen Sherlock this visibly upset.

"Sherlock, what happened?" he asked warily, trying to put some strength in his wrecked voice.

"There were complications during your surgery," Sherlock said softly, and John thought his voice sounded constricted.

"Complications?" John prompted, not sure he wanted Sherlock to continue.

Sherlock visibly tensed as he prepared himself to speak again, as though saying the words caused him physical pain. John prepared himself for the pain as well.

"You suffered another pneumothorax on the table," he began, his voice monotone, "causing you to go into respiratory arrest. A chest tube was inserted to re-inflate your lung, but the surgeons could not get your oxygen levels elevated enough and you went into cardiac arrest. The surgeons revived you, but they were unable to maintain your oxygen levels and you suffered two more cardiac arrests. They could not continue with your at surgery, of course."

Sherlock paused, shutting his eyes and taking another breath.

"After you were stabilized, Dr. Azarian discovered a small pulmonary contusion in your left lung, which prevented full gas exchange and caused your respiratory distress. It was small enough to avoid detection before your surgery, but big enough to cause problems once the lung collapsed again. You've been in a medically induced coma and on a ventilator for three days while your lungs and heart recovered."

He finished and closed his eyes. John stared at him, numb with shock and disbelief. 

"Oh," he said, finally.

Well, that explained why his chest felt like it was on fire and his throat felt as though it had been gone over with a lawn mower. Some wild part of him wanted to laugh. It was all so fitting. Of course this had happened. Everything else had gone wrong--why wouldn't his last hope?

And then he felt Sherlock's hand shaking.

_Oh god, Sherlock!_  Sherlock had been the one waiting for him again. The one to get the news again. The one who had tried to talk him out of the stupid surgery in the first place. He was probably furious. He probably hated him now.

"Sherlock," John rasped, "I'm sorry."

Sherlock's eyes flew open, his brows knitted in confusion. 

"What?" Sherlock's voice was sharp and it cut at John.

"You don't have to stay," he whispered quickly, trying to pull his hand back, but Sherlock just held it tighter. Why was Sherlock holding it? Out of pity? Was he so pitiful now that Sherlock thought he needed his hand to be held like a child's? 

"John, stop!" Sherlock's voice was rising now and John winced as though waiting for a blow.

"It's okay." John said. "You aren't obligated. You don't have to..."

"JOHN!" Sherlock's yell was somehow both angry and sad, and it surprised John so much that he stopped talking and just stared, wide-eyed, at Sherlock. "Shut up! I know I'm not obligated to be here. Don't you see that I want to be here?"

John stared at him. He wasn't making any sense. Why would he want to be here. John didn't want to be here. Nobody wanted to be stuck in a hospital with a someone who couldn't even get out of bed and, now, would never be able to walk again.

"That makes no sense Sherlock," he said finally. "There's nothing for you here. Why would you want to be here?"

Sherlock was glaring at him now, visibly angry. "Because of you, John! Because you're here!"

"But...," he didn't understand. It wasn't like Sherlock to be so irrational. "But I'm useless like this. I can't do anything. I can't run off to crime scenes or chase after suspects or... or anything. I'm useless!"

Sherlock's eyes widened and he stared at John and John was certain he was going to come to his senses and leave.

"That isn't why I value you, John," Sherlock said finally, his voice soft and full of wonder, as though he had just come to a conclusion on a case. "John, I value you for a thousand different reasons, not just because you happened to do a decent job of running around London after criminals. Your value to me does not reside in your usefulness to me. I value you because of who you are, not because of what your transport can do."

"I'm not a genius," John pressed. "My mind isn't valuable like yours. My 'transport' was what I was good for."

Sherlock shut his eyes again and shook his head. "John I am astounded by how thoroughly you underestimate yourself. You have innumerable qualities I do not possess, all of which are invaluable to me. Personally."

Sherlock sat on the side of John's bed, keeping their hands entwined as he moved.

"What do I have to do to make it clear to you that I want to be here with you?" he asked.

"Sherlock?" John was shaking now. He was confused. He couldn't interpret what he was hearing. Surely Sherlock wasn't... He couldn't be saying... It wasn't possible.

Sherlock was looking directly at him, holding his gaze with such an intense expression that John was finding it difficult to look at him, but impossible to look away.

"John, you once described me as spectacularly ignorant, and I must now admit that description to be entirely accurate. I did not realized the full extent of my feelings toward you until you were almost lost to me. And once I did realize, I planned never to tell you. But then I almost lost you again and now I see that you must know, whatever the effect on our relationship. So, John, please hear me when I tell you in no uncertain terms that I want to be by your side now and always."

Sherlock closed his eyes and took a deep breath as John simply stared, eyes wide and mouth slightly ajar.

"I know that you are straight and I do not expect you to return the sentiment," Sherlock continued as soon as he had taken a breath, "but I felt it necessary to..."

"Sherlock stop," John's voice was shaky, but stronger than he anticipated. 

Sherlock's mouth snapped shut and he looked chastised, like a scolded puppy, John shut his eyes and took a shaky, painful breath. 

"I... I'm not... er..." he tried to clear his throat, but the effort hurt so much that he settled on simply taking another shaky breath. "I'm not good with... er.... with this stuff. "

"John," Sherlock began, "you don't have..."

"No, let me finish," John cut in. "I guess I've been acting a bit of an ass. Sorry. I thought someone like you couldn't possibly want someone like me around if I couldn't be useful. And it really bothered me because... well, because I really want to be around you, Sherlock. I don't know what that makes me. I do like women, but... but I don't care. After Afghanistan... before you came, my life was nothing. And then you came and everything change and I had hope. I don't ever want to lose you. So...er...I guess...er..."

Sherlock was smiling at him as John grew more flustered and exasperated. Why was this so damned difficult? 

"Feeling's mutual?" Sherlock supplied, a lilt to his voice and bordered on a laugh.

John let out small laugh.

"Yeah," he said, chagrined. "Yeah, that."

And then they were laughing. Laughing together. The tension and apprehension and stress that had built up since the explosion releasing, just a bit. And they both thought of their first chase though London--coming back to 221B and laughing together in the hallway. And they thought of how absurd their lives were and how absurd their relationship was. They both leaned into the laugh and let their tension ease and just enjoyed one moment together in the midst of their chaos.

And when they stopped laughing, they just a breath's length away from one another, staring into each other's eyes. And the air felt heavier and the room seemed quieter. And Sherlock whispered, "may I?" and John nodded.

And they kissed.

And the world didn't end. And fireworks didn't go off. And music didn't play. And it wasn't the best snog John had ever had, but it meant the most. And Sherlock analyzed it--the texture of John's lips and the way the muscles moved under the skin and the amount of moisture and how he breathed and the way he tasted.

And then they pulled back, sooner than either would have liked, because John needed to breathe and, unfortunately, breathing was still rather difficult and painful. Life wasn't a fairy tale and Sherlock's kiss had not cured all his ailments. 

But as they stared at one another, John looked to his future with considerably more hope than he had ten minutes before. His lung may have destroyed his hope of regaining feeling in his leg, but at least he hadn't lost everything. He hadn't lost Sherlock. And that was everything that mattered. 

They sat that way for a long while, in a silence far more comfortable than the silence that had been festering between them for so much of the recent past. Then, finally, Sherlock pushed himself up off the bed...

And John gasped audibly, his eyes going wide.

"What's wrong?" Sherlock was at his side immediately, his own eye's wide in panic.

"J..just now. When you got up," he said shakily. "You put your hand on m...my bad leg. When you were pushing yourself up."

Sherlock looked confused. "Did I hurt it?"

"Yes," John said, wonder in his voice. "Yes, Sherlock. It hurt!"

And then comprehension finally hit Sherlock and they both looked down at John's leg.

"I felt it!"


	15. Epilogue

John had never been happier to see a front door in his life. After several weeks in hospital, followed by seemingly endless physical therapy in another facility, he had begun to despair of ever seeing the front door of 221 Baker Street again. He stared up at it from the back of the cab as though it were a fabled portal to faraway lands. 

He was home. Finally home.

He was so enamoured of the door that he actually startled when Sherlock opened his cab door to help him out. Sherlock looked worried, but John just chuckled at himself and took the hand Sherlock had extended. The panic attacks were not gone, but he was not in danger of one now. Not here. Not at the front door to 221 Baker Street. 

The cab had parked directly in front of the flat, making the journey from the vehicle to the door only a few short steps. Nonetheless, it took John a couple of minutes, leaning heavily on his newly re-acquired cane, to get inside. 

John had spent much of his time while recuperating teasing Sherlock about the restorative powers of his kiss. It had taken Sherlock an amusingly long time to realize John was kidding, which did serve as a source of amusement for a while. But, as much as he joked about his fairy tale prince coming to his rescue, his leg had only regained moderate sensation and motor function. And, though it appeared to improve over time and with much effort, he would never regain full function in the limb, however many times Sherlock kissed him. Thus, although his the bone and tissue damage had healed, John still struggle with range of motion and holding weight on his right leg, which made walking difficult. 

Once inside door, John leaned against the wall, taking in the smell of the place and savoring the moment. In this place, leaning in the exact spot he had leaned with Sherlock so long ago, in the middle of their first case, he felt enveloped and safe and happy. 

Beside him, he could feel Sherlock, hovering with what he thought was probably a mix of energy and impatience. Sherlock had been almost as excited as John to get him back to their flat, if only so he wouldn't have to interact with John's medical team any longer. 

Sherlock had started taking cases again once he was convinced John had regained enough strength to fend for himself against "those insufferable idiots" (indicating John's medical team). He had, however, brought John updates on the cases regularly, talking through them with great energy as he had always done, often to the dismay of John's nurses and, later, physical therapist. And, although John wasn't with him, he felt a part of the cases. He wrote posts about the them, bothering Sherlock for the details he always found most interesting, much to Sherlock's frustration and annoyance, though he always answered all John's questions.

John opened his eyes and glanced over his shoulder. Sherlock was indeed hovering, staring at him with that intensity that always made him feel a bit weak. Behind him, the stairs loomed, large and seemingly endless. He felt a bit weaker. 

"Ready?" Sherlock's voice held none of the doubt John felt looking at those stairs and it gave him some strength back.

"Yeah," he said, grinning.

And he began the slow ascent up the stairs, one step at a time, Sherlock at his side, talking as they went about Lestrade's last case (boring) and John's last blog entry (missed the point entirely) and his last experiment (fascinating--and probably horribly messy from the sound of it).

And then they were at the door of 221b. And John felt his breath catch in his throat. And Sherlock was still talking, but his voice had faded into the background as John gazed at the home he had thought he lost. 

Sherlock was flitting about the room with his usually restless energy, but John remained standing in the door, staring. Finally, Sherlock seemed to realize John hadn't moved or responded in some time and was at John's side in an instant, worry evident on his face.

"What's wrong?" he asked.

"Nothing," John said, blinking as he focused on Sherlock, a smile breaking across his face. "Nothing. It's just... I'm glad to be home, is all."

Sherlock grinned back at him.

"Then come in," he said, his tone all annoyance, but his face all relief and joy. 

And Sherlock tugged John's free arm and John followed him, stumbling slightly, into their flat as Sherlock expounded on their next case and how he needed John to rest because they were going to the crime scene in a few hours. Sherlock tugged him directly to his chair and John allowed himself to fall into it. 

As John watched Sherlock, he knew things would be different now. He wouldn't be able to run off the same way he had before. He would have to figure out how to move in the world now that he moved differently. And he still had nightmares and tremors and panic attacks periodically. But, as Sherlock continued to enthusiastically describe the case they were now apparently working on together, he knew he would be able to figure it out. Because he wouldn't have to do it alone. He hadn't lost everything. Not this time. 

And so, John Watson sat in his chair in his home listening to his Sherlock and feeling as though all were right with the world, even if he did now have a cane at his side and a not-so-psychosomatic limp.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So sorry for the long delay in posting this. There was a bit of a family emergency. But it is finally here. Thank you so much to everyone who read, and to those who left kudos, and most especially to those who left comments. You are all so wonderful!
> 
> Drop by my tumblr and say hi!


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